


The Masque of the Blue Death

by paperandsong



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, The Masque of the Red Death - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Angst, COVID-19, Carnaval, Death, F/M, Faust - Freeform, Gothic, Horror, Medical Horror, Näcken, Period-Typical Racism, Plague, Quarantine, Red Death - Freeform, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25714858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperandsong/pseuds/paperandsong
Summary: A plague has descended on Paris and the Comte de Chagny invites one hundred of his closest friends, artists, and servants to escape to his ancestral home. Of course, an unwelcome mummer slips in before the doors are welded shut. Is it Christine's Angel of Music or something more sinister?The Masque of the Red Death, enacted by Leroux’s characters, with blatant COVID references. The characters are mostly canon compliant, but the plot diverges and will never meet up with the rest of Leroux because, well, you know how this ends.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Comte Philippe de Chagny/La Sorelli, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 111
Kudos: 48





	1. Return from Perros-Guirec

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story begins as Raoul and Christine return - separately - from their enchanted trip to Perros-Guirec. Christine still believes in the Angel of Music, has never been through the mirror, has still not seen the body of the voice.

Tradução em português aqui: [A Máscara da Morte Azul ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26214886/chapters/63800824)

The blue death had devastated the countryside for months. Sputum was its avatar and the bluish kiss left on the lips of the dead its seal. Mucopurulent sputum that would fill the lungs of the victim, drowning him on dry land, giving him the appearance of one pulled freshly out of the ocean. The blue blotches upon the body and face were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and sympathy of his friends and servants, even as he lay sputtering and dying at their feet, mouth down, in a last effort to relieve the pressure of that viscid muck that threatened to burst his lungs. It was widely believed that the maladie spread among the population through a novel miasma billowing out of the rivers, or traveling on the wind, or out of the breath of loved ones. The whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease lasted a mere twenty-four hours.  
When the countryside was half ravaged, the people of Paris began to cover their faces with triangles of cloth tied just under their eyes, to protect themselves from this miasmic horror. The poor used rags, but some used the mask as yet another way to express their affluence. The finest ladies wore masks of lace, so that one might see their hale lips were pink, and not yet blue.   
But the Comte Philippe de Chagny was happy and dauntless and sagacious and he wore no mask at all. He had planned a clever escape for himself and one hundred of his healthiest and most entertaining friends and servants to his family’s ancestral home in the countryside. He had carefully selected from among his peer group those who were most extravagant, amusing, and unattached. He had invited musicians, dancers, and artists from the Opera, and even tailors and dressmakers. He paid extra to guarantee the esteemed doctor of the Opera would come, along with his wife. He had only to wait for his younger brother to return from a spontaneous and ill-advised trip to Perros-Guirec. 

Philippe waited impatiently at the train station. He wrapped his silk scarf tight around his neck, against the January cold. He tapped his foot nervously, fearing the love-struck boy had missed his train completely. He had just been informed it was the last train to be allowed into the city. They were already barring the entrances to the station from the street. No one would be entering or leaving Paris by train for some time after this evening.   
This did not interfere with Philippe’s plans; in a few days his party would travel in a procession of carriages right out of the city, accompanied by wagons loaded with provisions and wine. So much wine. He did not worry that they may be stopped by authorities; he was the Comte de Chagny, certainly it was his right to go and visit his properties at the Château de Chagny.   
But he did worry for his brother. If he were to be stranded in Brittany, there would be nothing Philippe could do to save him. He could only hope the foolish boy would shelter in place until this plague was blown away by a strong wind. Or a miracle.  
When Raoul descended onto the platform, Philippe had to catch him in his arms. The boy was pale and sickly. The other passengers scowled at him from above their triangular masks.   
“How selfish to travel when he is clearly so ill - and without a mask!”  
“He was sniffling and sniveling the entire journey. He is not long for this world!”   
“You should be careful holding that young man in your arms like that!”   
“Have pity, he is my brother!” Philippe shouted in return, holding back a torrent of abuse that would be unbecoming of a man of his station. “Raoul! Raoul, wake up!” he said, slapping the boy in his white face. Though he was indeed very ill, he lacked the telling bluish pallor that would have caused Philippe to abandon him there on the platform without looking back. Philippe helped his brother to the carriage that waited for them.  
In the morning, Raoul told his older brother a revised version of the events at Perros to explain his poor health. He recounted that he had fallen ill after an evening walk in the fresh snow with Mlle. Daaé, and omitted any talk of Angels of Music or Enchanted Violins or Death Heads with Glowing Eyes. Or falling asleep on the floor of the old stone church.  
In turn, Philippe told Raoul of his great plan to hide away from the current pestilence far from the city, where the epidemic was really only just beginning. Raoul did not want to hear anything about it. Christine consumed all of his desires and he desired only to see her again.  
“You must invite her,” Philippe said, encouragingly.   
“You would want her there?” Raoul asked in disbelief. He had always understood that his brother would never allow him to marry a girl like Christine.  
“Of course! I have invited Sorelli. We will be surrounded by the best artists of the Opera. What better way to spend our days of retreat? There won’t be a moment of boredom.”

When Christine returned to Maman Valerius’ apartment from Perros, she was met with a blue sash tacked over the door and a little sign from the Department of Health that declared there had been two deaths from la peste bleue inside. Entrance was strictly prohibited. Neighbors cracked open their doors to find her crying against the door. They kindly confirmed, without stepping foot outside to comfort her, that indeed both Mme. Valerius and her maid had perished just two days before, one after the other. The authorities had removed the bodies that morning. Not one of them invited her inside for consolation.   
“Where will you go?” a woman asked from behind her door as the girl stumbled down the hallway.  
“To the Opera.”  
  
Christine entered her dark dressing room quietly; she did not yet want his words of solace. She wanted to be alone in her grief. She lay herself on the little sofa and pulled a blanket over her head. Still, she felt his eyes on her. She wept soundlessly into her hands until she fell asleep. When she awoke in the morning, she found herself all alone in the great Opera house and she wanted very much for the Angel of Music to come to her.   
She sat at the little dressing table and wept liberally into her arms, hoping that he would hear her. As if to beckon him to her. She soon heard the voice wrap itself around her. It was thick and close in her ear; a voice that embodied a body. She shivered under the sensation.  
“Why do you weep? Did I not play upon your father’s violin as promised?”  
“Do you not already know? Maman Valerius has died!”  
“My poor child!”  
“I am all alone in this world,” she cried. “I have no one. I have nowhere to go.”  
“No, Christine You are never alone. As I have told you, I am wherever you are.”   
She tried to let this be the comfort it was meant to be, but still she trembled. “I am frightened. The plague is all around us. Death shall soon be everywhere.”  
“Do not be afraid, Christine. Take comfort in me. I will never leave your side, I -”  
There was a knock. The voice at once dispersed into the corners. She stood and brushed the tears from her face before opening the door. Her lovely face drained of all its color. 

“Christine!” A feverish Raoul rushed past her into the room. “I have been looking for you everywhere. I have been to the house of Mme. Valerius. I am so, so sorry.” He moved to embrace her in consolation, but she pulled away. Not here. His heart sank. He believed she was still angry with him for laughing at her, for not believing in her stories about the Angel of Music. He had not told her all that he had seen in Perros when she left him in the churchyard. He felt clouded and heartsick. But there was no time for that now.  
“Christine, I have come to take you away from here. The plague is upon us, but my brother will save us. He has gathered our friends and tomorrow we shall leave for the countryside. He has personally invited you. Now that Mme. Valerius is gone, I beg you to come. I cannot allow you to stay here alone.”  
“I - I would not be alone if I stayed here,” she stammered, wide-eyed.   
“Stay here? In the Opera? Why haven’t you heard? The entire spring season has been canceled. They are boarding up the doors as we speak. You cannot stay here. I will not allow it! You must come with us.”  
“For how long?”  
“Until it is all over! Until the plague blows away or, if by some miracle, they find a cure. For as long as you need to stay with me, I will take care of you.” Seeing the reluctance in her face, his voice became less urgent and more tender. He took up her hands in his. “Please, Christine, please come. I should die if I were to return to Paris to find your door draped in blue like poor Maman Valerius.”  
“Yes,” she said rashly. “Yes, I will come. You are right. I cannot stay here.”  
He smiled past his sickly aspect.   
“Really? You will come with us? Oh, Christine!” he bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned away. Not here.  
“Yes, I will come as your friend. I am grateful for your brother’s hospitality.”  
“Yes, yes. As my friend. My very dear friend. Christine, where will you sleep tonight? I know that you cannot go home.”  
“I will sleep here, as I did last night. Meet me here tomorrow morning. I will be ready. But you must go now and I must rest.”  
“Yes, of course. Rest well. I will fetch you tomorrow morning.” He squeezed her hands and with some reticence left her there in her dressing room.

She stood silently, her heart beating out of her chest with dread. What would he say? For surely the voice had heard everything and she knew well what a jealous voice it was. Before it could speak, she bravely declared,   
“I will go and stay with the de Chagny family to save myself from this plague. And you will be there with me, for as you say, wherever I am you are there also. You need not worry or be jealous or make a scene. Raoul is a brother to me. I am not capable of such earthly love. I -”  
“That is enough, Christine," it said. “I would not dare to make you stay here. For I too wish to see you saved. I could not bear to watch your pretty lips turn blue. Go and I shall find you and I shall watch over you just as I do here, and everywhere. You are a good girl, Christine and I believe you when you say that boy is nothing more than a brother to you. Now, you must rest. Let me sing to you.”  
  
He spoke these words on his knees, leaning his head against the side of the mirror. He sang to her softly, desperately. He watched as her face passed from terror to peaceful slumber as she lay upon her little sofa.   
A pox upon the pox! It had ruined everything. All his plans had slipped through his fingers in an instant. He would have done anything to keep her safe. He would have sheltered her from the pestilential terror outside, folding her into the warmth of the Opera. Why, he knew of a place where no plague or man would ever find her. But it wasn’t time, her room wasn’t ready, he wasn’t prepared. And now that boy had come and would try to take her away from him in the morning. His only solace was that she wanted the Angel of Music to stay by her side. And so he would.   
He resisted the deep desire to step into her room and brush the hair out of her sleeping face, to kiss her soft forehead. But that too would ruin everything. Instead, he pressed his cold lips to the looking glass. 

__________________________________

**The Masque of the Red Death**

You won't need to have read Poe's short story to understand this fic, but I highly recommend it just because it's a classic and was also the inspiration for Erik's Red Death costume. I like to think that it wasn't just Leroux making the reference, but Erik himself because he liked the story, and because he wanted to antagonize the revelers at the masquerade. The Masque of the Red Death is widely available for free online. Here is one link: 

<https://www.poemuseum.org/the-masque-of-the-red-death>


	2. In the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forest is not for ballerinas.

Le Comte de Chagny had summoned his friends to meet in the Parc Monceau, where their fine carriages would line up before processing together out of the sickening city. At the end of the caravan there were several wagons filled with provisions of food and wine, bolts of cloth, musical instruments and cans of paint. Though tightly packed, there was ample room for a shadow to stow away.  
The de Chagny coach stopped by the Opera house on the way to the meeting place. As Raoul helped Christine into the carriage, she was greeted excitedly by la Sorelli.  
“Christine Daaé!” the dancer exclaimed. “Why Raoul, I had no idea,” she said, eyeing the boy slyly with her dark fox eyes. “Since when?”  
“Oh no,” he clumsily corrected. “We have known each other since we were children.”  
Christine felt her cheeks grow red. Would it be assumed now that the Vicomte had also looked to the Opera to procure himself a paramour? Was she now Sorelli’s sister mistress? What an unholy little family they made.  
“How are you, Mademoiselle?” Philippe asked politely as the carriage took off with a start.  
She could only hold her mouth open in wonder at the question. She was deep in mourning. But she could not say this. Raoul had warned her not to mention Maman Valerius’ death to anyone. He did not want her to be seen as tainted by the plague. He did not want her to be cast out. She was not even allowed to wear black.  
“I am well, thank you,” she whispered, turning her eyes towards the window.   
“She is just a little nervous,” Raoul assured them. He took her hand in his. “It is all a little frightening, is it not?”  
“Please, I want no dark talk on the ride,” Philippe said, holding up his hand. Sorelli faux-shivered and took a hold of Philippe’s arm. She gave Christine a knowing glance that let Christine know she knew nothing about her at all.

Philippe talked proudly of the fifty or so society people who had accepted his invitation. He listed the other titled ladies and gentlemen (more gentlemen than ladies) that would be passing the days with them at the ancient Château de Chagny. And he was very satisfied that so many talents from the Opera would accompany them as well: Carolus Fonta, la Carlotta, the present Mlle. Daaé, and several chorus members, la Sorelli, of course, and an entire carriage full of ballerinas (none so young as to need their mothers). Scenemakers, dressmakers -   
“We will be asked to perform?” Christine asked incredulously.  
“We will all perform merrymaking, Mlle. Daaé,” Philippe said, leaning forward with a smile. “It will be very important to keep our spirits up if we are to spend so much time locked away together.”  
The procession of black carriages made its way northwest of the city, towards the forests of Vexin. Philippe and Sorelli fell asleep to the rhythmic rocking of the carriage and hoofbeats. Sorelli’s forehead nested against Philippe’s shoulder, Philippe’s cheek indecently pressed against her sleek black hair.   
Raoul made a gentle attempt to pull Christine’s head to his own shoulder, but she resisted. He was content that she allowed him to hold her hand instead.  
“Christine, I apologize for what happened at Perros, for not believing in your story - about your Angel of Music.”  
She stiffened. Her eyes darted from one window to the other as if she feared they could be heard even from inside a moving carriage.  
“I saw something in the churchyard, after you left me there.”  
“What did you see? Oh, tell me what you saw!” she pleaded.  
“I heard that enchanted music and then I saw a figure among the bones stacked up against the wall. I followed the figure into the church and I touched his cloak, for he wore a cloak that was as real as anything I might wear myself. And when he - when he turned to look at me -” Raoul stopped speaking and covered his eyes, as if he saw the very apparition of the figure before him, where Sorelli was sleeping.   
“Do tell me, Raoul!” cried Christine.  
“It was too awful!” his voice quivered.  
“You must tell me what you saw!”  
“His head - his head looked like Death, like Satan himself. And his eyes, he burned me with his eyes. He looked at me and my very heart stopped beating.”  
“And that is how you came to be found asleep inside the church?”  
“Yes.”  
“And that is how you came to be so ill?”  
“Yes.”  
“And you believe this figure was my Angel of Music?”  
“Yes.”  
She snatched her hand from his.  
“Then you disrespect the memory of my father! For it was my father who sent the Angel to me - to protect and teach me! If you saw a demon lurking about the churchyard, well, that says more about your soul than it does mine!”  
“Christine! Think about it - you say he promised to play upon your father’s violin, which was buried along with him. How was he to do that without disturbing your father in his grave? And if he did not play upon your father’s violin, then he lied to you. I say it is he who disrespects the memory of your father!”  
“You think I am mad!”  
“No!” Then, realizing how loud their voices had grown, and noticing Sorelli shift about in her sleep, Raoul whispered, “I think only that someone is playing a game with you. A deceitful, nasty game.”  
“I do not want to speak of it ever again!”  
After a brief silence he said,  
“It matters not. Where we are going, this _figure_ \- angel or man - will not be able to follow. You will be safe with me, Christine. I want only to see you safe. Because I love you.”   
The truth of his words pierced her heart. For if he was correct and the angel was only a man, then all the protection and guidance the voice had given her, as if from her father’s very mouth, would soon be locked outside and she would be all alone again.

It took an entire day of endless snow covered landscapes to reach the forest. As the parade of carriages entered the darkness of the treeline, a rider, who had been tasked with carrying messages between the carriages, signaled for the de Chagny coach to stop.  
“What is it?” Philippe shouted out the window.  
“Better you should come out, Monsieur,” the rider said.   
“Oh for God’s sake!” he grumbled as he pulled on his coat. He descended the carriage and to his surprise found that the Opera doctor was also waiting for him. In a low voice the older man said,  
“M. le Comte, we must attend to a most urgent problem.”  
"What is that, doctor? I cannot hear you. Please, lower your mask."  
They walked towards the end of the line of carriages, snow crunching beneath their feet. The driver wordlessly opened the door. Philippe peered deep into the darkened cab to find eight ballerinas, the blue kiss of death still fresh upon their downturned faces.   
He took six steps back in horror and instinctively covered his mouth and nose. He turned to the doctor to ask, “What do we do?”  
“I can only advise that we bury them here, in the forest,” he said, gravely pulling up his white mask again. “It is a shame, M. le Comte, that of all the variety of people you have invited here, you did not think to bring a priest.”   
Philippe had no time to feel insulted. This was a most unfortunate tragedy, but it would be a greater tragedy still if it should cast a shadow over their retreat. Above all, Sorelli could never know.   
“Thank you for your advice, doctor. I ask you to please return to your carriage.”  
“I am sure that there are enough men here to dig quickly. We could say a few words over them -”  
“No need, no need. Doctor, if you please,” he said, holding his arm out in the direction of the doctor’s carriage, where his wife was beginning to poke her head out of the window. “And no word of any of this, to anyone.”  
When the doctor had gone away, Philippe turned to the rider and told him the same. Not a word, to anyone. He even threw a few coins his way to seal the secret. Then he drew very near the driver and handed him an even greater sum along with his morbid instructions: to drive the carriage deep into the forest, unhook the horses, and ride far away from here. And mind the wolves.  
As the two men were speaking, a thin, graceful arm slid out of the carriage door. Philippe added a few more coins to the driver’s pocket for the work of folding the arm back into the carriage without touching it.

The Château de Chagny was an extensive and magnificent structure, girdled by a strong and lofty stone wall, surrounded by the dense forest. As ordered by the Comte de Chagny himself, the staff waited outside in the dark and snow to greet each tired guest with a small glass of champagne. Philippe stood proudly in the great hall before the blazing fire to welcome them inside.   
Sorelli clinked her glass to Philippe’s. Her eyes scanned the weary travelers streaming in through the front doors, looking for her ballerinas, who should at any moment be excitedly asking her about their sleeping arrangements.   
“Philippe?” she whispered. “I still don’t see my little girls. Have all the carriages arrived?”  
“Ah, my dear! I forgot to mention it,” he said, gently sliding his arm around her shoulder. “They turned around halfway through the journey. They returned to Paris.”  
“What? Why? Why wasn’t I told?”  
“Apparently, they missed their mothers.”

The doctor made every effort to advise Philippe, as he believed he had been hired to do. He suggested, before leaving Paris and declared again more urgently upon arrival at the Château, that all guests should wear masks as they congregated in the great hall.  
“There will be no masks,” Philippe said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  
The doctor, who wore a mask even as he made his recommendations, sighed deeply.   
“Then at least advise your guests that they should quarantine themselves for two complete days. It is the only way for us to know that no one else has carried the pestilence with them from Paris.”  
“This is a retreat, not a quarantine. I will not infringe upon the freedom of my guests to move about my home. I will, however, prove to you how serious I am about keeping the maladie out. Tomorrow we will weld the doors and windows shut.”  
The doctor and his wife hid themselves away for three days, until the quotidienne chatter outside their door convinced them it was safe to come out.  
  
The great house was vast and its rooms innumerable to those who need not know the count. The staff had ensured that each titled guest had an elegant room off the hallway at the top of the great staircase and that each hired guest had at least a bed at the basement level, where the permanent staff had their quarters. The artists floated somewhere between titled and hired. Christine and Sorelli were to share what had once been Raoul’s childhood bedroom, while the de Chagny brothers shared what had once been their parents’.   
The first night, Christine was quite relieved she would not have to sleep alone in the immense and drafty darkness of the Château de Chagny. They had not been close friends at the Opera, perhaps because they did not often have reason to cross paths, but Christine had always admired Sorelli’s kindness towards the ballet girls. Christine herself also loved children and thought poorly of anyone who did not. The cold realization washed over her that Philippe had not invited a single child to be saved by his retreat.  
“You have not brought much with you, Christine Daaé,” Sorelli noted, watching her put away her things.   
“I did not have much time to pack. Raoul only invited me yesterday,” she said softly.   
“Ah. And you and Raoul only recently returned from yet another trip, isn’t that right?”  
“He accompanied me to Perros-Guirec, to visit my father’s grave on the anniversary of his death.”  
Sorelli’s playful expression dropped into a sincere grimace of sympathy.  
“Oh, I am so sorry. I misunderstood.”  
Without meaning to, Christine burst into tears. Sorelli folded her into a tight embrace.  
“Do not cry, Christine! I am an orphan too,” she grasped Christine by her shoulders and gently pushed her away, to look into her eyes. “The very best thing you could have done is rekindle your friendship with Raoul. They may never marry us, but they will take very good care of us.”  
Christine swallowed her disgust and shook her head.  
“I will never marry anyone.”  
“One day you will,” Sorelli brushed away a tear from Christine’s cheek with her soft thumb. “But for now, enjoy your time on the arm of a Vicomte.”   
They each helped the other out of their dresses and stays. Sorelli brushed out Christine’s hair and painted her fingernails. Finally, Sorelli looked at the clock on the mantel and put on her dressing gown and slippers.   
“Where are you going?” Christine asked innocently. Sorelli smiled.  
“I will go to Philippe’s room now. He is waiting for me.”  
“You are leaving me alone here?” Christine cried.  
Sorelli smiled again, astounded by the girl’s wholesomeness.  
“No, you will not be alone. Raoul will take my place.”  
Christine shrieked in horror.  
“No! He cannot sleep here!”  
“Christine, are you saying you two don’t - ? But you wouldn’t have to do anything you did not want to do. Sleeping next to your beloved can be just as sweet. And Raoul is a very sweet boy.”  
“No, tell him he cannot come.”  
Sorelli opened the door.   
“You should tell him yourself. He is right here. Good night, Christine Daaé.”  
Sorelli padded down the dark hallway towards her lover’s bed.

Raoul stood in the open doorway, handsome in his fine nightshirt and robe. The lantern light of the hallway illuminated his golden hair from behind. He smiled softly and looked timidly into the room.   
“Christine, I have come to wish you goodnight.”  
She approached him cautiously, holding her gown tight across her chest.   
“Good night, my friend,” she whispered, a distressed affection in her eyes.  
He leaned in to kiss her cheek. And she allowed it. But when he moved to enter the room, she pressed her hands against his chest and lightly pushed him back out.  
“No, Raoul. It isn’t proper. What would people say?”  
“They would say that Raoul de Chagny loves Christine Daaé very much and wishes only to see her happy.” He bowed slightly as he backed away and went off to sleep in some unknown corner of the great house.  
She was sad to see him go. She stood in the doorway and imagined, for a fleeting moment, what it might feel like to lay embraced in his warmth. She was achingly lonely. Her heart grieved acutely for her mother, her father, Maman Valerius, and for her entire magical childhood that had now fully departed her. Except for Raoul. He was the last little piece of those enchanted days spent running through the heather and splashing through shallow tide pools of the northern coast. She shivered. She was not at ease in this house. She swore she could hear the growl of wolves in the distance. She buried herself in the blankets of the grand four poster bed and succumbed to her melancholy.   
And just when she was at the cusp of tearful sleep, his velvet voice filled her ears.   
It said,   
“You have been a very good girl, Christine.”


	3. Fairy Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Comte de Chagny demands his guests entertain him with nightly stories.

_Mine, o to make her mine_   
_Mine and forever_   
_Why did I gaze on her?_   
_Mine she is never!_

The Comte de Chagny made a great ceremony of sealing off all the windows and doors on the ground floor. The guests were very pleased. The external world could take care of itself; they would soon learn it was folly to grieve or think of what happened beyond the walls of the great house.   
The Château sat at the center of several circles. There were staff locked inside, who cooked and cleaned and tended the fires. There were staff locked outside, who went into the village each day to purchase fresh produce and animals, to supplement the provisions that had been brought from the city. There was the surrounding village, which continued to farm and labor, despite the raging plague, all praying daily that it would not reach their corner of the forest. There was only one unsealed door between the Château and the outer world, and only two keys. One hung around the housekeeper’s neck, the other around Philippe’s.  
“What happens when the village falls?” someone asked gravely.   
“That’s what the bars on the windows are for!” someone offered.  
Philippe raised his hand and they were quieted. He would not tolerate such talk.  
“The more important question is, what happens when the wine runs out?” someone else asked in jest. Philippe assured them the wine cellar was full, and if it ever did run out they could open up the barrels of rum.

A newspaper was procured from Paris. As the Comte had ordered, its pages were pasted onto the outside of the wide windows of the library. The guests gathered there hoping to read the anecdotes of the society pages they had missed. But there were only pages and pages of obituaries. He quickly ordered the blue velvet curtains drawn over the window until the staff could scrape the paper away. Soon enough, there would be no more newspapers or news arriving from Paris.   
For a time they still received letters. Each morning, the outside staff would hand the inside staff a little stack of envelopes through a small crack in a downstairs window. The letters were distributed at breakfast. Philippe and Raoul received word from their sisters, who had retreated to their own homes, with their own husbands and children. Sorelli waited eagerly to hear from even one of her ballet-girls. Christine understood that she would never receive a letter. There was no one left in Paris to think about her. Everyone she knew was locked together in that very place.  
One morning, Philippe received a curious note warning him of a possible intruder - an imposter among them. He laughed and turned the paper over and over.  
“Do you recognize this name?” he asked, showing the letter to Raoul.  
“Oh, I do believe it is from that Persian fellow who hangs about the Opera.”  
Sorelli discreetly fingered the wooden ring on her left hand.   
“Well, what would he know about it?” Philippe huffed.  
“He is probably just jealous he wasn’t invited,” Carlotta said, earning a few snorts of amusement from others at the table.  
Raoul tried to catch Christine’s eye, but she would not look at him. She nervously stared down into her cup of tea. 

The Comte’s demands on his guests began gently. The musicians were expected to provide constant chamber music. The artists and tailors were to take orders and begin making preparations for a large event to occur in several weeks time. But to sit within Philippe’s circle of intimate friends each night required a willingness to entertain him personally. He liked a good story and encouraged competition between storytellers. As became a nightly practice, he would call out a name and a guest would stand upon the extravagant tiger skin rug before the roaring, cavernous hearth and captivate the party with fairy tales of the most grisly nature.   
La Carlotta began with a chilling story of el Cuco, that nebulous creature who stole children away in the night, whose claws took shape only when they were dripping with blood. Raoul spoke of the shape-shifting Loup-garou, said to stalk the surrounding forests, causing his brother to sweat with guilt. La Sorelli horrified everyone with a disgusting tale of a two tailed siren possessing the vagina dentada who wrested sailors from the decks of their ships to drown them in her salty embrace. Philippe himself beguiled them all with a tale of the fiery vampiric Soucouyant, told to him by a Martinique-born servant girl when he was just a boy.   
When it was Carolus Fonta’s turn, he gave a dramatic groan.  
“I have been trying very hard to think of a story - for I knew this day would come! But I have nothing for you.”  
There were cries of overly demonstrative indignation from the party.  
“This is not fair!”  
“Surely they have stories in your country?”  
“We told you our stories - now you must give us one in return!”  
Perhaps Philippe was the most unhappy of all. A story was a small price to pay for his protection. The baritone paced across the tiger skin rug several times, deep in thought, when suddenly a story came to mind.  
“But have you not all heard the story of the Opera Ghost?”  
Sorelli unconsciously moved her hand over her skirts and fingered the small dagger strapped to her thigh. Carlotta gasped and genuflected. Those who were not employees of the Opera shook their heads and urged him to continue. He described the events of the last few months, when everyone backstage whispered of the skeleton in evening dress.   
“Wasn’t that the way, Sorelli? Your ballet-girls were often in hysterics because they believed they saw him here and there.”  
While Sorelli did not wish to speak of her girls or the Opera Ghost, Raoul listened with great interest. When Carolus described the Opera Ghost’s eyes, Raoul’s own eyes grew wide.  
“Eyes that burn like fire, you say?”  
“Yes, that is what I have heard. I never saw him myself. And poor old Buquet is not around to confirm one way or the other,” he said, immediately regretful for having spoken the dead man’s name.   
Sorelli nervously twisted the ring on her hand. Raoul merely twisted his hands. 

The evening came when Christine was called upon to gift the party a story of her own. Projecting an air of innocence as she did, no one expected her to tell a story of ghouls or monsters. Raoul encouraged her to tell them all about the korrigans they used to see dancing on the heather in Brittany, at which she made a face. She knew that no one wanted to hear about the sweet fairies of her childhood. She thought back on the countless stories her father had told her. When he was content, which was often, he told her happy stories about the Angel of Music and other such spirits. But when he was in a dark mood, he told her dark stories of other creatures from the North Country.  
They all looked to naïf Christine, eyes brimming with jeers, just waiting to laugh at her. She took to her feet and stood between the fire and her audience. The light behind her was brighter than the light before her, casting her pretty face in shadow, deepening the sad rings around her eyes.   
She began,  
“ _My father used to warn me about wandering too close to rivers and streams. He told me to be especially wary of waterfalls, or even small trickles of water over stone, for those are the places the Näcken likes best._  
 _There was once a young girl, who did not have a father to warn her of such things, who went out too far while picking wild berries under the midsummer evening sun. She heard the most enchanting music and she followed it to the edge of a small river where she saw an elegantly dressed man with white hair playing a violin. She was filled with the desire to play his violin and she begged him to teach her. Without looking at her, without ceasing to play his music, he told her to bring him a flask of wine._  
 _The next day she brought him his wine and found him no longer so elegantly dressed, but unashamedly naked and beautiful, sitting in the tall grass, playing his violin, his long white hair flowing over his shoulders. She gave him the wine, but when she again asked to touch his violin he demanded three drops of blood from her ring finger. She held out her hand to him and when he had pricked her finger he could then more fully enchant her. He began to play his violin with such fervor that she was compelled to dance. It was a violent dance that brought her no joy. As he played, the river ceased to flow from the mountain, the birds went quiet, the whole world stood still except for the Näcken and his bow and the girl and her dance, over which she had no control. Round and round, he danced her into a deep sleep._  
 _When she awoke, her ring finger had begun to rot away. She saw a pure white horse drinking from the river and she began to cry, for she did not see the Näcken anywhere. She knew then that he had tricked her. But the horse spoke to her and he told her to climb upon his back, that he would take her to the Näcken himself. She mounted the horse and clung to his white mane as he plunged into the water. Even as he dragged her down into his watery kingdom, the girl believed that the Näcken would teach her to play his violin_.” 

The story did not frighten the audience; it only left them discomfited and confused. All but Raoul, for Raoul knew exactly what the Näcken was, and who he was, and that he haunted her still. Damn him.  
Philippe was most unimpressed and said,   
“I think I am growing tired of fairy tales. I should like to hear from the Opera soon. I know you were all very disappointed that the season was canceled, when our actors were ready to astound with their interpretation of Faust. Next week I should like to hear a few pieces. Do you all agree?” he asked, looking over to Carolus, Carlotta, and Christine.   
The party continued late into the evening, but Christine was tired and wished to go to bed. She held Raoul’s arm as he walked her up the grand staircase and down the dark hallway towards his old bedroom, which was now hers.   
“That was a strange story you told,” he said softly. “I never heard you father tell that one.”  
“It was not one of his favorites. Nor mine."  
“Have you ever thought -” he hesitated, stroking her little hand, “Have you ever considered that the voice that calls to you is -”  
She withdrew her hand from his arm.  
“I thought we were never to speak of that again,” she said coldly.  
“Oh my love, please forgive me!" He grasped her shoulders. "I will never mention it again.”  
She smiled weakly.  
“Good night, Raoul.”  
“Good night, my love,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek, but instead stealing a kiss from her lips.   
She pushed him back and let out a small cry of surprise. Then she dared to meet his gaze and pulled his mouth to hers. His kiss was warm and deep and stirred everything within her. He pulled her close to him, encircling her with his arms, his hands running up through her hair. At last they broke apart with a gasp for air.   
“Good night, Raoul,” she said breathlessly.  
“Good night, Christine,” he whispered, as she closed the door slowly into his face.

She sat on the bed and braced herself. Soon the voice would wrap itself around her and she would have to account for what she had done.  
“Good evening, my child.”  
“Yes, good evening.”  
“The boy has a very curious way of kissing his sister good night.”  
“So he does,” she said, brushing her fingers across her bottom lip. She smiled to herself in the darkness. Then she covered her mouth as she feared he might see it. It seemed that he could see everything.  
“And that was a very curious story you told them.”  
“My father used to tell me that story.”  
“You father used to tell you so many stories. Why did you choose to tell that one?”  
She brought her knees up to her chin and sighed.   
“Because it is a scary story and all the stories the others told were scary. I did not want them to laugh at me if I told a story that was too childish.”  
“And what kind of story is the Angel of Music? Scary or childish?”  
“He is both of those things.”  
“Do I frighten you, Christine?”  
She hesitated to answer. But she felt perhaps it was best to be honest.  
“Yes, sometimes.”  
“Are you frightened of me, now that your boy has kissed you?”  
“I am frightened that you will go away, like you said.”  
“You do not want me to go away? My sweet child! But then why do you let that boy kiss and paw at you? If he continues I shall have to return to heaven. Is that what you want?”  
She sat in stung silence.  
“Do you still believe I am the Angel of Music?”  
“I - I have doubt that my father would send me such a spiteful spirit.”   
Now it was the voice that was silent.  
“I believe that my father would want me to be happy.”  
“But I shall make you happy. That boy would only make you his mistress!”  
“I believe that my father would want me to find love.”  
The voice made a terrible sob.   
“But I love you, Christine!”  
She began to weep.  
“I know,” she cried. “I know you do.”  
“You must love me, Christine!”  
To which she could only shed more tears. They wept together until each felt that deep exhaustion in the lungs that can only come from crying. Or drowning.   
“You no longer believe I have been sent from heaven,” said a bitter, broken voice. “You believe I am no better than that malicious water spirit who plays music for you only to steal you away!”  
“No!” she cried softly.  
“You shall no longer hear from me.”  
“Oh no!” she cried regretfully.   
“Adieu, Christine.”  
“Please come back! I will be good!”  
But she did not hear the voice again that night, or the night after, or the night after.

He could scarcely contain his howl. He held it in his mouth until he had climbed down from the balcony and run through the snow, away from the house. And then it burst through him like a rush of wind, if wind could carry on it all the pain of one man’s heart.   
He had lost her! She was within his reach, so close he could have grasped her hand. And she had slipped away with the mere touch of that boy’s lips upon her mouth. A pox upon him! May they all perish in this plague. May they all rot! All but her.   
He fell onto his knees in the snow and wept into his hands. He would go nowhere. Not back to heaven, not back to hell. There was nowhere but next to her. One day soon he would have the courage to reach out and touch her hand and she would know what he really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far. I hope you're enjoying. Comments and reviews are deeply appreciated!


	4. It Came from the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the spring season at the Opera has been canceled, Philippe requests a private performance of Faust. If they were still in Paris at the Garnier, Carlotta would croak like a toad, the chandelier would crash, and Christine would walk through the mirror the first time. This will be an entirely different performance.

Sorelli knew it was dangerous to feel so comfortable. Sitting at Philippe’s side at the great dining table, filled with aristocrats and artists, she could almost pretend she was the mistress of this house. The old order was beginning to fray under the weight of the current situation. Was it possible that when this was all over and they returned to Paris, he would come to see Sorelli as worthy of being his wife? It was self-treachery to think so.  
Her mother had warned her of such hope. Her mother had been a dancer at the old Opera on the Rue le Peletier. She was among the ballerinas immortalized by Degas himself, and yet, she had died in poverty just as most ballet-girls eventually would. It was her mother who had given Sorelli instructions for leveraging her beauty and talents for security and even pleasure. It was also her mother who had given her the small dagger she kept at her thigh. For those men who did not understand her rules.  
Philippe had never been one of those men. The parameters of their partnership were always firm. He had always been polite and generous. He had never given her false hope. But the plague had changed everything and on its miasmic zephyr floated a sense that a new world would rise out of the ashes of this diseased one.  
The housekeeper’s tone was proof that indeed the old world was dying. The way she spoke to le Comte de Chagny with such insolence! But still, Sorelli agreed with the woman.   
“We must be more conservative in our meat consumption, M. le Comte.”  
“I will not have my guests sipping soup as if we were in a monastery.”  
“There has not been a market in the village for weeks. The villagers have begun to refuse to sell us their animals. They are keeping them for their own families.”  
“Then offer to pay more!”  
“They no longer care about money. There is nothing to buy. I am afraid that if we do not ration the meat, we will not have any for Carnaval, and I know, M. le Comte, that there are plans for a grand feast.”  
“The likes of which have never been seen!”  
“Then we will serve soup for all meals until that time.”  
“Ridiculous!” he spat. But he knew he had no choice. He could not make a pig appear out of thin air.   
Sorelli was embarrassed for him. He should have considered rationing meat from the very beginning. In his effort to provide amply for his guests and to provide all appliances of pleasure, he had failed to consider the passing of time. No one knew how long the plague would last. No one knew how long they would be locked inside. Philippe seemed more concerned with ennui than with hunger. As if he could not even hear the large clock ticking in the corner. The one she could not ignore.   
Sorelli knew with certainty that she would have been a better master of this house. She would never have made such a mistake.   
“One more thing, M. le Comte,” the housekeeper said. “About the wine.”  
“What about it?”  
“It is running out.”  
“Then buy more!”   
“Someone has been drinking it. Alone.”  
“What?”  
“Someone drank an entire case of wine and put all the bottles back into the crate. They even recorked the bottles so as to make them appear unopened.”  
“I didn’t think it was possible to recork a bottle.”  
“Neither did I, Monsieur. But if this individual continues we shall run out before Carnaval.”  
“Well, obviously it is one of the staff. Find out who!”  
The housekeeper was most flustered by this.  
“I assure that the staff of this house do not make a habit of drinking alone in the wine cellar! It is more likely to be one of your artist friends. With all due respect!”   
“Well, at least we still have the rum.”  
“That rum was brought here when your poor mother was still alive. Again, with all my respect, I shouldn’t think it fit to serve your esteemed guests.”  
“Rum doesn’t go bad, does it?”  
“I wouldn’t know, Monsieur. If you please, I have other business to attend.”  
And with that she turned and left his presence.  
Such insolence!

Carolus, Carlotta, and Christine met with the musicians in the library to discuss their upcoming performance of Faust. There were only three principal singers and a few chorus members. Méphistophélès, as it turned out, had a wife and children in Paris to whom he was quite attached and had refused Philippe’s invitation to the retreat. With the ballet-girls missing, there could be no Act 5 ballet in hell. The artists and tailors were all busy preparing for Carnaval and would not be able to provide costumes or scenery. It would be a reduced performance.   
Carolus dreaded making the decision as to who would play Marguerite to his Faust. While it had originally been Carlotta’s role, Christine’s performance at the former managers’ farewell gala put doubt in his mind as to whom the part really belonged. He had been so moved by her performance of Anges purs, anges radieux that he began to tremble himself as he sang alongside her. He had felt honored to help carry her off stage after she collapsed in what appeared to be some sort of celestial ecstasy. He had felt, in that brief moment, that he carried a true angel in his arms. A far cry from the depressed creature that sat before him now, distracted by the curtains missing from the large picture window.  
Carolus also knew that Christine had Philippe’s favor, being the mistress of his younger brother. He knew Philippe had even put in a few kind words on her behalf to the Opera’s new management. But Carlotta was likely to make a scene if she were asked to perform Siébel. And she would make a terrible Siébel. It was hard enough to imagine Carlotta as the virginal Marguerite.  
To his relief, Christine said right away that she wished to sing only Siébel’s aria from the garden scene. Carolus would sing Faust’s cavatina praising Marguerite’s soul, so chaste and pure. Carlotta would sing Marguerite’s two arias, about the Roi de Thulé and that fabulous casket of jewels left at her door, and finally, Carolus and Carlotta would end the garden scene with their duet and a light kiss. Without a Méphistophélès they felt that this was the best they could do to placate their host.

The night of the performance, Sorelli helped Christine pin up her hair and rubbed a little rouge into her cheeks. She helped to pull her stays and button up the nicest dress she had brought with her. But when Christine appeared in the great hall, Carlotta cried out, “Where are your pants, Christine?” There was laughter from the musicians as Christine’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.   
“I haven’t got any. Why would I have? I thought none of us would wear costumes tonight.”  
“But no one wants to listen to Siébel sing about how much he loves Marguerite when he is dressed like a woman!” Carlotta explained with exasperation.   
Philippe had called the entire household together for the performance and they were already gathered before the crackling fire. Even the servants were allowed to stand in the back of the great hall. They stirred expectantly.  
“Go and change!” Carlotta demanded. “Everyone is waiting for you.”  
Just as Christine was on the edge of tears, Raoul came and took her arm.  
“You can borrow a pair of mine,” he whispered, leading her upstairs.   
“It will be embarrassing! They won’t be a proper costume. They will be too big for me. I cannot appear before all those people dressed in your clothes!”   
“Not even if I tell you I would find it most charming if you did?”  
“Charming?”  
“Very charming,” he said with a smile. He led her to Philippe’s room, where he kept his things, even if he did not sleep there. He pulled out several pairs of trousers and held them against her waist. He pulled out a belt to help hold them up over her hips. She dried her tears and laughed.   
“Should I leave you alone to dress?”  
“I would prefer my privacy, but with all those people waiting downstairs, I think I may need help to get out of this dress quickly. If you could, just help me with the buttons in the back?”  
While just a moment before they had been giggling together, a pregnant silence grew between them as Raoul’s fingers worked inexpertly at the buttons. When he had finished, his hands hovered over her shoulders. He wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do next.   
“You can go now,” she whispered. “I can do the rest myself.”  
He kissed her cheek.  
“You will be marvellous.”  
Raoul closed the door behind him. She flinched preemptively. She expected the voice to come to her and scold her for her indecency. The silence left her both relieved and bereft. She would gladly accept his reprimand if it meant he had returned to her. How was she to sing tonight without him?   
She pulled the belt tight across her hips. 

_Faites- lui mes aveux, portez me voeux! Fleurs écloses près d'elle, dites-lui qu'elle est belle…_   
_Make her my confession, carry my wishes! Blooming flowers so close to her, tell her that she is beautiful…_

There were snickers from the audience as Christine appeared in Raoul’s ill-fitting clothes. But she was able to quickly charm them all with her sincerity and innocence. Christine had always held a soft spot in her heart for dear Siébel. Siébel, who was really too like Marguerite to ever be her lover. Christine sang beautifully, sweetly. Raoul caught her eye and she felt his love holding her up, even as her voice faltered.

_Fanée! Hélas! Ce sorcier que Dieu damne m'a porté malheur!_   
_Wilted! Alas! That sorcerer whom God damns has brought me bad luck!_

The memory of the voice seemed to wrap itself around her throat and wring all talent from it. Talent that died on her breath. She lost her self-assurance. The heat from the fire licked at her back. She ended the aria without any spirit left in her. Carolus was quite relieved that she had not fought to perform Marguerite or the whole night would have turned into a host-displeasing disaster.  
Christine exited the tiger-rug stage to weak applause. Carolus sang of a Marguerite so chaste and pure and innocent and divine that Sorelli snorted to herself to think of Carlotta as such. And indeed, when Carlotta appeared for her own pair of arias, her body so voluptuous and her voice so rich and earthly, one would be forgiven for forgetting that it was Faust who would debauch Marguerite and not the other way around. But all could agree that Carolus and Carlotta sang well together and in their final duet it was quite believable that they might spend that very night in each other’s arms. 

_Le ciel me sourit, l'air m'enivre! Est-ce de plaisir et d'amour que la feuille tremble et palpite?_   
_Heaven smiles at me, the air intoxicates me! Is it from pleasure and love that the leaf trembles and flutters?_

_Margueri-teh!_ , Carolus gave a final cry as if he could not believe it himself. They joined hands and kissed lightly. The applause was so great they felt compelled to kiss again, more deeply this time. And they stayed in front of the warm hearth for a while, basking in the adoration of the audience, so much more intimate than they had ever experienced at the Garnier itself.   
All were so enraptured in the performance that no one could later say how the shrouded figure appeared behind the couple. It did not come in from stage right or stage left, but rather from behind. As if it came from the fire.  
Carlotta did not perceive it at all until its cold hands were upon her, grasping her upper arms. It sang directly into her left ear,

_Non! tu ne prieras pas! Frappez- la d'épouvante! Esprits du mal, accourez tous!_   
_No, you will not pray! Strike her with terror! Spirits of evil, hurry, all of you!_

If the audience thought there was anything more amiss than an awkward transition between Act 2 and 3, they did not show it. How could they have known that at that very moment the real Méphistophélès lay dead, face down, surrounded by his sickly wife and children in Paris? The frozen look of terror on Carlotta’s face was interpreted as superb acting. They all knew Faust was not meant to be in this scene, but as they were not performing on a real stage, there was really nowhere else for Carolus to be than next to Carlotta. But how marvelous his acting - to make his own face go white like that!   
The surprised musicians caught up with the scene. The audience was delighted with this turn in the performance. All except Christine, who at once recognized the voice. And Raoul, who at once felt his beloved stiffen in fear. And Sorelli, who was herself quite superstitious and aware whenever there was sorcery afoot.  
The voice that leaned into Carlotta’s ear did more than repeat Gounod’s lyrics. It truly summoned the demons from the corners of that great room and rattled the gates of hell so loudly that Carlotta could not shake the sound from her head. The voice sent currents of fire down towards her sex and into her womb, where she could feel Faust’s unborn fetus twitch inside of her. Icy hands clawed at her arms from behind and held her in place, unable to turn her head to look into the face of the one who tormented her. Which was just as well.   
It finished,

_C'est l'angoisse éternelle dans l'éternelle nuit!_   
_It is eternal anguish in the eternal night!_

Carlotta was left voiceless. Marguerite had left her and only a deeply frightened woman remained. She fled the stage abruptly. The scene was over.  
The towering shrouded figure, whose face was buried deeply in folds of blue velvet, turned towards Christine. It lifted its splayed hand. The sleeve of its robe slid back, revealing its long corpse-arm. Its fingers curled in and each one beckoned her to its side. She stood choiceless, spellbound to obey. Raoul attempted to pull her back by the wrist but she resisted him. Carolus stepped forward, between Christine and the figure, and took her hand. And so the figure took in its skeletal fingers the hand of Carolus himself and plunged the three of them into the final prison scene,

_Le jour va luire, on dress l'échafaud…_   
_The day will shine, we will raise the scaffold..._

Carolus felt a bolt move from the shrouded figure’s hand through him and into Christine. She was struck again with that rare splendor and radiance that shook the audience to its core. Carolus too was affected. Never had he sung Faust with such anguish. Never had he been so sincerely fearful for the fate of Marguerite’s soul, the fate of Mlle. Daaé’s soul. Never had he felt the danger so acutely, so near to him. He felt his own head swoon. 

_Anges purs, anges radieux, portez mon âme au sein des cieux!_   
_Pure angels, radiant angels, carry my soul to the breast of heaven!_

Christine’s voice soared, as if lifted by another voice. She stretched out her arms in ecstasy, a sublime ecstasy, towards the ceiling, pulling Carolus’ hand along with her. Tears streamed out of the corners of her eyes and glistened on her cheeks. A great pity grew in Carolus’ chest. She sang as if she truly longed to escape this world. He would have wondered what possessed her if the answer weren’t at that very moment clutching his other hand. When she inevitably fainted, he was ready to catch her in his arms.   
  
There was a space of time between the last note and the applause in which no one was certain that what they had seen was performance or true life. They seemed inextricably intertwined. Raoul jumped to his feet and took Christine into his own arms. He promptly carried her upstairs to bed. When the audience decided it was, in fact, a performance, the applause continued for too long. They waited for the reticent Carolus and the musicians to take their bows. Waited for Carlotta to reappear or for Christine to revive herself. Or for the shrouded Méphistophélès to reveal himself, so that they might praise him and know his name. But he had long since disappeared. 

Philippe was pleased. It had been a confusing performance, but exhilarating all the same. He spent several hours sitting around the fire with his friends, discussing the exciting details. He looked around for Carolus to come and answer a few questions, but the man had already retired. The servants went about clearing the wine glasses and plates of uneaten chicken. Sorelli decided to go to bed early. He brought her hand to his lips before she left.   
Sorelli ascended the stairs slowly, perhaps regretting her decision to go to bed before Philippe. She was unsettled. Christine could have an intense way about her; it was not the first time she had fainted on stage. But Carlotta’s behavior was most unusual. It was very strange indeed that the diva would have left the final trio to Christine. There was something unnatural about the whole evening.   
She made her way down the dark hallway towards the bedroom. Lanterns cast a yellow and suspicious light into the narrow darkness. Just as she reached the door, a voice whispered her name.   
She whipped her head around, but there was no one. And yet, there it was again, _Sorelli_ , whispered seductively into her inner ear. Her hand instinctively ran up the length of her thigh towards the little dagger. But what use would a dagger be against a voice?  
At the other end of the hallway, close to the bedroom she did not really share with Christine, she perceived the slightest movement of a shadow. And then her eyes adjusted to the outline of a man, tall and thin, his face obscured by the folds of his hood.   
“ _You!_ ” she hissed.  
“Sorelli, when will it be your night to perform?” He took a step forward.  
“Who are you? Show your face!”  
“Or will there be no ballet in quarantine?”   
“Who are you? Stay away from me!”  
“Ah, it must be hard to perform a ballet without any ballerinas.”  
“Go to hell!”  
“Where have they all gone?”  
“What do you know about it?”  
“Not as much as M. le Comte. You should ask him where they have gone.”  
“They went back to Paris. Back to their families.”  
“Did they? The forest is a dangerous place for little girls. There are wolves, you know.”  
“What are you talking about?” For the first time, the voice struck true fear into her heart. “What do you know? Who are you?”  
“I am just a shadow. And a shadow sees things. You should ask him. I think he will find it quite hard to lie to you a second time.”  
“Go fuck yourself!”  
“Ah, if only I could. Good evening, Mademoiselle.”  
  
Raoul lay a listless Christine gently onto the bed. He pushed the slippers from her feet. He brushed her hair away from her forehead with concern. He had so many questions. But then he smiled to himself. She was so beautiful. And truly, very charming in his trousers. He fingered his belt buckle where it sat upon her waist. It was confusingly arousing to see her in his own clothes.  
He was content to lay next to her, to admire her and breathe her in until she awoke. And when she did awaken, it was as if the fire of desire had been lit inside of her. She sat up in the bed, gasping for breath, arms flailing, drowning in a dream. When she turned and found him next to her, she crashed her mouth to his. He moaned in surprise. He circled his arms around her and pulled her down next to him. They were a mess of kiss and caress and hands and hair.   
“Christine! What has possessed you?”   
She did not answer. She was a voracious fire, set out to consume him. She climbed over him and lay her body across his.   
“Christine!”   
She leaned into his hardness. He bent his knee so that his thigh filled the space between her legs and she pressed herself backwards against it. He forgot all about the performance. The world fell away. There was only Christine, in his mouth, in his eyes, in his hands. Just as he had always wanted her to be. As she moved her hands over him, crossing boundaries as she had never dared before, questions invaded his pleasure. Who was the shrouded figure? Was he the voice? Was he her Angel of Music? Was it he who had lit this flame in her?   
She moved her leg from straddling his thigh to straddling his waist. She sat erect, pushing the cascade of hair from her face.   
“ _Christine_ ,” he whispered now, gazing up at her. She was no longer Siébel, despite that she still wore his trousers. She was no longer Marguerite, despite her present path to corruption. She was now a celestial being who held all power over him. She leaned over him for a kiss and he took her by the hips and pressed her down onto his cock. She cried out in pleasured surprise. He pressed her harder, seeking her out through all the layers of clothing they had not yet shed. He would have pressed himself right through his own trousers if they had not been interrupted by a sudden and urgent scratching at the door.  
They clung to each other in fear.   
“It’s him!” she whispered in terror, clutching Raoul’s shoulders and burying her face in his neck.  
The door creaked open slowly.  
“Christine?” whispered a feeble, tearful voice.

“He just left them there! He confessed all his lies to me!”   
Christine held a weeping Sorelli in her arms and half-listened to the entire sickening story. It was too awful to comprehend. But Christine could not hold more than one horror in her mind at once. Her stare was fixed over Sorelli’s heaving shoulder and out the window to the balcony. There, two glowing eyes stared back at her, two spindly hands splayed on the glass. 

__________________________

I found this production of Faust to be especially helpful for imagining this chapter. It's amazing. I don't know how long it will be up on youtube, but I highly recommend it. The ballet scene in particular is just spectacularly creepy.

 **Gounod - Faust** full performance ROH HD English subtitles: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LwUB-AIJyFE&t=10171s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LwUB-AIJyFE&t=10171s)

Please leave a comment or a review! I'd love to hear what you think about what this all might be leading up to before we get to the final chapters.


	5. Carnaval de Quarantaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> É Carnaval porra!!!

It was towards the end of February, at the close of the fifth or sixth week of seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously through Paris, that le Comte Philippe de Chagny entertained his hundred or so friends and servants at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.   
It was a most voluptuous scene, that masquerade. The artists and scenemakers and dressmakers that had been brought from the Opera spent several weeks preparing under the strictest of orders from the Comte himself. A papier-mâché mask had been created for every living person then residing at the Château de Chagny, including for the staff. Nothing ghoulish or morbid, as might have been expected at a typical celebration at this time of year. Only animals; woodland creatures, such as foxes, hares, wolves, and deer, and some exotic beasts such as tigers, peacocks, lions, and zebras. No two masks were alike. In addition, simple gowns and tunics had been sewn in an array of colors: purple, green, orange, white, violet, scarlet. By order of the master of the house, there were to be no costumes in blue.   
The fête began on the Saturday before Ash Wednesday, and would continue until the clock touched midnight on the Tuesday. Four days of ceaseless reverie during which it would be forbidden for anyone to remove their mask and reveal their true face. There would be constant music and an endless feast, served by masked musicians and servants.  
Le Comte de Chagny was not present at the inauguration of festivities on Saturday. Raoul could not find him anywhere. He welcomed the guests to the great hall, most transformed into a scene of magical diversion, on his brother’s behalf. Then the menagerie of guests processed into the hall, their robes flowing as freely as the wine.   
In an assembly of mummers such as these, it may well be supposed that no one costume could have excited the crowd more than any other. The animal masks lacked the irreverence or danger of true Carnaval. And yet, late into the first night, there descended the great staircase a figure whose eccentric air and gruesome appearance caused a sensation. It was a man, tall and gaunt, dressed all in dark shades of blue, with a huge indigo hat and plumage all atop what could only be described as a Death’s head. From his pointed shoulders hung an immense blue velvet cloak, which trailed down the stairs like that of an emperor’s. On this cloak was embroidered, in golden letters of stolen thread, “I am the Blue Death - mask yourself!” As if by compulsion, everyone that read the words found themselves speaking them aloud. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse - skin pallid and taut, eyes deep set and black - that even the closest scrutiny would have difficulty in detecting the cheat. Because there was none. As a final, mocking detail, the figure wore the protective triangular mask of the plague just under his eyes. It was, of course, an insulting shade of blue.  
He delighted in the terror that rippled before him. With every outrageous step he took forward, the crowd parted in fear. He might have stopped and enjoyed it to the fullest if he had not been so focused on his singular objective: Christine.

Sorelli’s costume had been designed according to Philippe’s specifications, according to his very specific fantasy. Her white gown was no simple tunic, but a mass of tulle and a lace bodice inlaid with small crystals that caught the light and sparkled along the decolletage. Her mask was set with small white feathers and the delicate yellow beak of a swan.   
The sight of it made her sick. She knew that the girls had been dressed in simple, traveling clothes, but in her haunted image of their decomposing bodies, they were all dressed in tulle. Puffs of white tulle, billowing out of that abandoned carriage. Beyond the devastating image the costume brought to mind, Sorelli could see the affection Philippe still held for her in its design and she was filled with pity.   
Every night for the past two weeks, Philippe had come to her locked bedroom door to cry and apologize, to beat the door and plead, to curse and threaten her. And then to cry and apologize all over. Sorelli and Christine would sit up in the bed and hold each other fearfully until Raoul would come and drag him away again. Sorelli’s heart had turned cold against him and his performances were futile. But the white gown touched her deeply. He still thought there was a chance for reconciliation and she found it painfully pitiful.   
Christine had been given a violet tunic and a delicate fawn mask with long eyelashes and little white speckles painted along the brow. The young women descended the stairs together and were immediately taken in by the grand scene. Two suckling pigs had been set up on the dining table, surrounded by roasted chickens and ducks, cakes and candied fruits. Glasses of champagne were thrust into their hands. They made a game of attempting to recognize the other masqueraders; they spotted Carolus’ broad frame behind his tiger face, and Carlotta’s lush black hair decorated appropriately with peacock feathers.   
“Es un carnaval de cuarentena,” she cackled.  
“Y pronto será una cuarentena de cuaresma,” he chuckled in return. “We will give ourselves much to repent in the coming days.”  
Christine searched for Raoul, who had told her he would wear a stag’s head with great antlers. Sorelli anxiously looked over her bare shoulder, dreading the moment when Philippe would find her and pull her hand into an unwanted kiss.   
Though they meant to stay together, Christine and Sorelli were soon wrested apart by the dancing and whisked away to opposite ends of the great hall. The music swelled around them like a dream. They all did their best to forget what lay outside of that great house. It was no use in thinking about Paris. Paris was far away. Paris was not real. Paris had never been real. No use thinking about the surrounding forest. The forest was empty. There was no such thing as wolves or the Loup-garou or abandoned carriages or any plague. There was only Carnaval. There had only ever been this Carnaval in this house with these people. All the same people who had been locked inside when the doors and windows were welded shut.  
Christine whirled from partner to partner, still searching for Raoul, who was at the same time looking for his brother. Around and around until her hand was grasped by something cold and bony and she was wrapped in a frigid embrace of blue and velvet and bone. Though she was at first pressed so tightly to his chest that she could not easily look up at the face of the one who held her, she recognized instantly those long fingers as the same that had beckoned her to sing. He turned them together in perfect time to the music, around and around until the room was a blur and she lost all sense of direction or time. He leaned down and brushed his mouth close to her ear.   
“Christine, my love.”  
She let out a small cry.   
“Do not be afraid of me!” His arm drew itself tighter around her waist. “I have returned to you, although you do not deserve it,” he cooed. He continued to dance them around the room, while onlookers whispered and gasped at the sight of it. “You have lied to me, Christine. I know now how you desire an earthly lover. I saw you, you know. But you no longer need that boy. Now I am here before you.”   
She felt faint. She began to slip away from him, but he tightened his grip on her little hand and crushed her closer to him, pressing her ear against his beating heart.  
“No, do not be afraid!” he insisted. “I have waited so long to hold you. For I love you, Christine! There is no one who can love you as I love you.”  
She closed her eyes and listened to the music all around her. Her feet scarcely touched the floor; she felt as though she were floating. She could not have escaped him if she had tried. But she did not try.   
He was so tall she could not keep her hand at his shoulder and it slid down his long arm as they continued to dance. Her fingers played upon the blue fabric of his sleeve. She pressed her fingers deep into the flesh and felt the thin, taut muscles that ran along the length of his bone. And she felt the bone itself. Her hand traveled under his cloak and around his waist. The voice had a body. An earthly body. He was real. He had always been real. She opened her eyes and lifted her head from his chest.  
“Why - why are you dressed like this?”  
“Are we not at a masquerade?” he asked.  
She looked up into his preternatural eyes, black but smoldering. She regarded the pallor of his skin, the depth of his sockets, the way the blue fabric of his mask lay flat against his face.   
“Why are you dressed like the plague? Why do you wear the mask of Death?”   
Oh, sweet child - she thought he wore a mask beneath his mask!  
“I thought to remind M. le Comte Philippe de Chagny that he cannot lock Death outside.”  
She shivered in his arms.  
“But you are the Angel of Music, not the Angel of Death,” she said softly. “Why should it be your duty to remind him of this?”  
His heart was deeply touched - she still believed he was an angel! How he loved her!   
“Did you hear me, Christine? I am here now. I am here and I love you. Oh Christine, you must love me now!”  
She was stunned into silence. His love was terrifying.  
“You must love me!”  
He was so desperate, so pitiful, so human. Did angels really have beating hearts such as this?  
“Love me!”  
“Please, let me see your face.”   
She reached her hand up and he caught her by the wrist. His grasp was rough, but soon melted into a caress of thumb upon her palm.  
“I believe we are under strict orders from M. le Comte himself to maintain the masquerade for all of Shrovetide.”  
“Let me see the face of the Angel,” she implored. Let me see the face of the one I love, she thought.  
“You must wait until the end. Wait until Wednesday.”  
She nodded in agreement. She felt the enchantment of his voice fall over her and the strength of his hold tighten around her waist. She could no longer feel her feet upon the earth. She leaned her head back and gave a dazzling smile as they spun around and around. The Angel of Music, sent by her father, held her in his arms at last.

“The Death’s head of Perros-Guirec!” Raoul’s voice shouted out from the crowd. At once, the cold fingers released her and he slipped from her arms. He deftly disappeared into the mass of people crushing in all around them; there was no one who dared to stop him. Raoul rushed to her side.  
“Did he hurt you, my love?”  
“No,” she whispered, her voice weak and quivering.   
“It is him! I will never forget that face!” he darted forward to follow the figure, but she caught him by the arm.  
“No, Raoul. Stay with me.” She slid her fingers under the fawn mask to wipe away the tears that had collected in the hollow of her eyes.  
While in another life, pursuit of this imposter may have consumed all his efforts, on this night he had competing concerns. He solemnly took Christine by the waist and steered her towards the wall, away from the reverie.   
“Christine,” he whispered urgently. “I cannot find Philippe anywhere.”  
“Where could he have gone? There are only so many rooms in this house and we are locked in tight.”  
“He has a key to the outside he wears around his neck. I am afraid he has gone. I am very worried.”  
“But gone where?” she gasped.  
“He has not been himself since Sorelli broke his heart.”  
“I would say it was Philippe that has broken Sorelli’s heart!”

The Blue Death continued to enjoy himself. He chased glass with glass after glass of wine. He became quite curious about the Comte’s absence. Indeed, he was disappointed that the Comte had not yet seen his costume. He began to discreetly ask the staff,   
“Have you seen M. le Comte this evening?”   
They all shook their heads. Only one offered any detail,   
“We have not seen him since yesterday.”  
“He is missing his own party then!”  
“Yes, Monsieur,” and with a whisper in undeserved confidence added, “They say he has gone to the village.”  
“The village?”  
“They say he went to buy more wine, but we all know what he really meant.”  
“What could he have meant?” But the servant only gave a knowing stare.   
More than one reveler told him how ugly they found his costume. Some reminded him that the Comte would disapprove, that he disrespected their host with such a morbid display. Others raised their glass to his irreverence and gall.   
The Blue Death spied the back of Sorelli’s cloud of tulle. He recognized her elegant posture and long, well shaped arms, which he had admired many times gracing the stage at the Garnier.   
“Mademoiselle, have you seen M. le Comte this evening?” he asked her slyly. She shuddered under the sorcery of his voice. She twirled her body around to face him in an angry, fluid movement. She hurled her wine into his face, glass and all. It shattered to the floor. He laughed at her as red wine dripped down his blue shirtfront.  
“Get away from me! Go back to hell!”  
He contemplated what it might mean for the Comte to have gone to the village. To do what, exactly? He considered that, as Sorelli was denying him access to her bed, he must have gone to a brothel. Or perhaps, overcome with cabin fever, he had wanted to participate in the village’s own festivities. Which were no doubt canceled. Maybe he had it all wrong and the Comte had sought out a priest to confess to leaving the bodies of those poor innocents without a proper burial as food for the wolves.   
He was suddenly very busy. He disappeared from the party for a time. He was missed by no one. Except, perhaps, Christine, whose eyes continued to search for him in the crowd. 

An awareness had spread among the staff, due in no small part to the whispered questions of that ugly blue mummer, that the master of the house had not been seen for two days. And in his absence, they gradually abandoned those duties that kept them apart from the fête. Finally, they could join the days of plenty that they had worked so diligently to provide for the others. The cooks came out of the kitchen - there was no more meat to roast anyway! The servers stopped carrying trays of wine and champagne glasses - the bottles were nearly gone. The housemaids stopped tending the fires and cleaning up the spilled drinks and vomit from the floors. Only the musicians continued their constant labor.   
Curiously, there appeared just outside the great hall five ancient barrels of rum, the crest of the de Chagny family’s sugar plantation in Martinique emblazoned onto the wood. The barrels were broken into with howls of delight. What had been, up until that moment, a rather chaste celebration of excess before the Lenten gloom, became an explosion of debauchery. And the rum was only half the reason.  
The Blue Death reappeared, this time before the string section of the small orchestra. His eyes scanned the selection of violins in use and he plucked the finest right from the musician’s hands. The exhausted young man was more than happy to be relieved and ran off to join the dance. The others cowered in their seats as the thief towered over them. He set the instrument under his blue chin and raised the bow like a sword. When he cut down on the strings, a new cohort of demons was let loose. The other musicians were compelled to follow his unknown melodies, wherever they might lead. To play until they bled from their fingertips. The music coerced the revelers to dance upon the tables, to kick away the remains of the suckling pigs and picked over fowl bones, and to make a salacious display of their bodies. There was the breaking of fine china upon the floor, the shredding of ancestral portraits with knives and forks, the ripping of costumes, down to the mask. Even the poor Opera doctor was swept up in the devilment; some laughed to see him fornicating with his wife upon the sodden tiger-skin rug. Men broke apart a finely carved mahogany chair to feed the dying fire behind their bodies entwining.  
Christine and Raoul had also fallen prey to the excitement. As if again possessed, she crushed her lips to his, pulling his face closer by a handful of his golden hair. They tried to dance, but could only stumble over each other with desire. They fell onto the disgusting floor, forgetting to be furtive. Raoul enacted the desires of another, burrowing his hips into the cradle of her thighs, tearing at her breasts through her gown. Wine and rum and music and lust all ran together in their veins.   
Sorelli had long run off in horror.

A rumor ran through the chaos. The master had returned. Maskless, dauntless, shameless. He drunkenly moved around the great hall, greeting his guests with wet kisses upon their cheeks as if there were nothing amiss, as if there were no greater indicator of a successful masked ball than a houseful of half-dressed revelers dancing upon chicken bones and vomit in the great hall of the ancestral home of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France.   
“Sorelli?” he asked everyone. “Have you seen Sorelli?”  
No one had seen her for some time. Although time had ceased to matter. The music continued all the many hours Philippe wandered about the party. When finally he came upon the source of this music, rage welled up and overflowed from his mouth.   
“Who dares -” he demanded, spittle spraying everywhere, “Who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery of a costume? Seize him and unmask him!” he shouted, pointing at the Blue Death. The violin at his shoulder went still, the music stopped, the enchantment lifted. Of course, no one dared approach the Blue Death, not even Philippe himself.   
In his sputtering rant he began to cough. It was a wet cough, slick and sickly. Productive. He couldn’t swallow it. He pulled out his handkerchief and covered his mouth, discreetly spitting the mass into it. He couldn’t help but to look into his hand in horror at the greenish sputum left behind. It was then that the others noticed the bluish blotches that had begun to appear on his cheeks. The revelers took a collective six steps away from him.   
Philippe descended to the floor and Raoul caught him in his arms. He began to wheeze and struggle for air, as if he were drowning. He instinctively rolled over onto his stomach for relief. There was a stir of fear as all remembered his inexplicable disappearance and the careless way he had put those blue lips to their faces just hours ago. They offered him no sympathy or aid.   
Raoul held his brother as he died, green muck bursting forth from his lungs. The boy wept openly. For all his faults, Philippe had been a very good brother to him. He did not once stop to think that he too would die now. But Christine did. As she came across the scene, she realized right away that her childhood friend and almost-lover had put himself in grave danger out of an abundance of mercy, without a thought for himself. She loved him for it. She realized she had always loved him. Believing that all was lost, she took a step forward to stand beside him.  
She was instantly yanked backwards by an unseen force. A cold, bony thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carnaval
> 
> Carnaval (AKA Mardi Gras) is the season from January 6 (Twelfth Night) to the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday. It has pre-Christian roots that make it more than just an effort to eat and drink a lot before Lent. It is a celebration of the ephemeral, and as such, costumes that celebrate Death are traditional and appropriate. Both Philippe and Poe's Prince Prospero were foolish to try to forbid the reminder. 
> 
> ALW's lyrics make the masquerade out to be at New Year's (here's to a prosperous year, a new chandelier), but Leroux's masked ball happens at "Shrovetide" which is a really archaic way of saying the four days before Ash Wednesday. And I think this is more appropriate. As a trickster, Erik would have been really into Carnaval - as we see by the effort he put into his Red Death costume and the fun he seemed to have "stalking about" reminding people of their mortality. 
> 
> My question: Was Erik wearing a mask at all at the masked ball? Raoul instantly recognizes him as the "Death's head of Perros-Gueric". But later, when Christine is describing to Raoul the horrible moment when she first saw Erik's face, she describes his face like this: "...and then you saw Red Death stalking about at the last masked ball. But all those death's heads were motionless and their dumb horror was not alive. But imagine, if you can, Red Death's mask suddenly coming to life..." So, I'm not sure. Was he going about maskless or wearing a mask that so perfectly matched his actual face that Raoul recognized him? In this story, Erik is maskless, exposing his eyes and forehead, but wears a health mask (not unlike our current fashion!) below his eyes. I don't think that would do much to hide his ugliness, but he has a bigger point to make. 
> 
> Thoughts?


	6. Quarantaine de Carême

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worst after party ever. 
> 
> This is the second to last chapter. There is too much left to happen for this to be the last.

With every resisting twist of her wrist, his cold fingers only tightened their grip. His blue cloak whipped her face as he dragged her along behind him.   
“Let me go back to him!” she cried. “He needs me! Let me help him!”  
Away from the great hall and the rising cries of despair from those slowly realizing their fate, she was pulled down a hallway, down a flight of stairs, down a dim corridor and into a cold room. All light fled the space as he shut and locked the door behind them.   
She turned to him in the darkness and saw that his eyes flickered by an internal flame. She fell to her knees, running her hands down his long legs to catch the hem of his cloak. She pressed it to her lips.  
“Save us! Please, save us!”  
“Christine,” he exhaled.  
“Please, my angel! Intercede! Take pity on them. Ask our Lord to save them!”   
“I can save only you.”  
“No, that cannot be right. You - you are an angel sent from heaven. Certainly you can - you can at least pray for us?” She raised her head to implore him, “Pray for us?”  
The truth of his silence fell upon her and she began to cry.   
“I am not an angel, Christine. I am only Erik.”  
She jumped to her feet and threw herself at the door. She rattled the handle, urgently trying to unlock it in the dark. His arms slid around her in an embrace of restraint. She screamed and his hand covered her open mouth. She wretched, then vomited into his fingers and down her dress. His flesh smelt of death.  
Still, he did not let her go. He held her firmly from behind, hissing quietly into her ear,  
“Do not make that noise, do not let them hear you. Then those that are already dead will want to hide here too.”  
“You lied to me,” she wept, her head hanging down over his arms. “I do not know you!”  
“It is true, I have lied, Christine. You must forgive me.”  
“Never,” she sniffed.  
“You will forgive me and you will let me save you.”  
“Oh, Raoul!”  
“Raoul is dead. They are all dead. There is no saving them. But you, you did not let M. le Comte kiss your hand or cheek when he returned, did you?  
“No.”  
“Neither did he kiss me. Then we shall be safe. We shall stay here until a day has passed from the last sound they make.”  
She angrily shrugged out of his arms. She ran into a dark corner, as deep into the darkness and as far from him as she dared to go. She crumpled to the floor. She could hear him moving about near the door, but she could not see him - not even the faintest shadow of his body. She ran her hands along the wall and felt the outlines of cool bottles. He had taken her to the wine cellar. Overhead, she could hear wailing and lamentations. The horror of Erik’s revelation receded and her sorrow for the souls upstairs washed over her.   
Raoul would be looking for her. He would think that she had abandoned him. It would have been better to die next to him than to cower here with this stranger. But she knew he would never let her go. She hugged herself and wept until she was too tired to continue that way.   
The smell of vomit wafting off her chest grew unbearable; a mix of rum and wine and chicken and candied apples. It made her wretch again. But she could not remove her dress - already the chill of the room had begun to prick her skin. The remaining alcohol throbbed through her temples. 

She stiffened as she sensed him approach her. Again she saw his glowing eyes, though they were low to the ground, as if he were crouching, crawling towards her. He pulled at the hem of her skirt in supplication.  
“Do not be afraid of me, Christine,” he begged her tearfully. “Forgive me my deceit. I wanted only to teach you and to watch after you. I love you!” He slid himself against the wall next to her. He felt her tremble and recoil from him, pressing herself deep into the damp corner, until there was nowhere left for her to go. He withdrew his hands and made no more effort to touch her.  
“Oh, I am but a fool to think you would ever love anyone as wretched as Erik!” he sobbed. He unleashed a string of self-abusing curses of such vivid creativity that she wondered if he didn’t spend hours alone perfecting them. She flinched and raised her arms defensively as he made several sudden strikes through the darkness. With great distress she realized he was striking himself. His groveling terrorized her. More than his breath upon her skin, his scathing words raised the hair on her arms. But to leave the horror before her she would have to enter the horror above. And she could not do that. She wanted very much to survive.  
He grew quieter. As the sounds above grew more frantic, down below she could hear only the aftershocks of his outburst; a lone heave, a sniffle, the dripping of water from some unknown source.   
Just the day before she had danced in his arms as if in a dream. He had presented himself as an angel in earthly form. How she had marveled at the feel of his flesh - at once ethereal and material - beneath her fingers! Could she admit to herself that she had even desired him then?   
He had now shown himself to be a dishonest man. His tantrum was enough to show himself to be a madman. His glowing eyes made her doubt he was a man at all. He was the stuff of a dream turned to a nightmare.  
Suddenly, the cold and fear seized her and her teeth began to chatter and rattle in her head.  
“Christine,” he said softly, with concern. “You have spoiled your dress. You must take it off. I will put my cloak around you and keep you warm.”  
She was too exhausted and sick of the smell of her own sick to refuse. The violet gown was of a simple design and she needed only to lean forward to allow him to unhook the buttons down her back. She listlessly lifted her arms as he delicately pulled the thin fabric over her head. The vomit had soaked through to her cotton chemise, but the worst of it came off with the ruined garment. As promised, he enveloped her in his velvet cloak and the damp, earthy, rotting smell of him filled her nose and mouth.   
“Christine, you should sleep,” he said. “Let me sing to you. You will see, I am the same friend I have always been.”   
He felt her relax under the effect of his voice. It was the same voice that had comforted her and taught her and guided her for many months. Surely, she wouldn’t forget everything he had done for her. She sighed audibly and to his amazement, she lowered her head down onto his knee. She pulled the cloak tight around her shoulders and he spread the end of it out over the tips of her toes. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, for he could see through the darkness that it threatened to tickle her nose.   
In all the many hours she slept, he did not dare move. Sometimes he found the courage to pass a hand over the cloak and feel the outline of her folded arms or the dip of her waist. He felt his heartbeat align with the rhythm of her soft breath.   
He continued to sing; he enjoyed the sound of his own voice and he held a small hope that when she awoke it would be with the same desire he had seen in her when she awakened next to Raoul that one cursed evening. What a fool he had been! His beguiling performance had benefited only his rival. Ah, but he had enacted a clever plan by disrupting the nightly rituals of the Comte and the Ballerina. Sorelli had caught them entwined and done all the work for him of ensuring Christine’s fidelity. He smiled to himself. And then, for the first time, he considered that it may have been his own actions that caused the disaster unfolding upstairs. Could it be that whatever weakness had led the Comte’s fatal visit to the village had been spurred by Sorelli’s rejection? No, no, no, he thought. I cannot be blamed for it. It was M. le Comte’s responsibility to protect his guests and he failed. What a tragically foolish man.

He could sense the flutter of her eyelashes. He waited for her to sit up or to speak. She awoke not with desire but with a question.  
“Erik?”   
How precious to hear his name in her mouth!  
“What is it my little angel?”  
“Did you really play upon my dead father’s violin?”  
But what strange musings!  
“You heard it yourself, did you not? Just as I promised?”  
“But did you play upon his own violin? The one buried with him in his grave? Did you clutch it from his dead hands?”  
She kept her head in his lap as she posed these questions. He tenderly grasped her shoulder.  
“His own violin would have been warped from the damp of the earth and the salt in the air. I could not have played upon it. I brought my own violin to Perros. Does this disturb you, Christine? Or does this calm your heart?”  
“I didn’t like the thought of you opening up his grave and bothering him.”  
“Is that what you thought I had done?”  
“I thought - when I thought you were an angel - I thought that you played upon it while it remained in the grave next to him. Through some kind of sacred magic. But now that I know you are not an angel, I know you could not have done this.”  
“Do you feel better now?”  
“When Raoul saw you at the masked ball, he recognized you from Perros.”  
“So he did.”  
“How could he have recognized you? You were wearing a mask.”  
“I do not know. How could I know what he knew?”  
“I think that you have told me many lies. Too many to count.”  
“It is true, Christine. But you must forgive me.”  
“It is so dark in here,” her voice broke. “Please, find me a lantern. I will go mad if I have to stay here in this darkness.”  
His cold heart stood still. He knew she would eventually ask for light. He knew exactly where there was a lantern and that he could light it and it would not bring her any of the comfort she sought.   
"I will go mad if I cannot see your face.”  
The light would only illuminate all her fears.

He struck a match and lit the kerosene drenched wick. The golden light kissed her face and shadows played inside the hollows of her eyes. Sick as she was, she was beautiful! He braced himself for her horror.   
“Why do you still wear your mask?” she asked, taking a step closer. He could not bring himself to answer. She reached out and gently pulled the blue fabric down, revealing the entirety of his ugliness, his gaping hole of a nose, his hollow cheeks, his cadaverous mouth. Her reaction was clouded by confusion. If she furrowed her brows, it was only because she found his choice of Carnaval mask to be so repulsive. But she had known it was repulsive since yesterday. She reached out again and felt along his jaw, trying to slide her fingers under the border of a mask that was not there. She ran them up towards his ears, searching for straps to untie. The touch of her fingers grew more and more frantic as she could not find the edge of his disguise. She pinched at his jaw more forcefully, desperately trying to rip off the barrier she imagined covered his face.   
Finally, he took her hand in his and held it to his cheek.   
“What is it you are looking for, Christine?”  
“Take off your mask! Please, it is too real!”  
He sighed mournfully.  
“Oh, Christine…”   
He pressed the tips of her nails into the flesh, lightly scratching them across his skin, so that she might know what it was that loved her. He watched the shadow of understanding pass over her face and fill her eyes with fear. She tried to pull away but he held her hand firmly in place.   
Suddenly, a woman came wailing down the hallway. They locked eyes as they listened to her cough and rattle the door handle. They each sighed in relief as the poor woman continued down the hall in search of a quiet place to die. The horror without sucked up all the horror within. 

Sorelli screamed into a pillow so that she could not hear the screams of others. The sounds of coughing and vomiting and sobbing and expectorating phlegm were driving her mad. She had been locked in her bedroom since leaving the masked ball in disgust. What had caused the party to descend into such depravity? Even the Opera doctor! She liked to think that she would never engage in such public displays of indecency. But she wondered, with some sense of regret, if the night would have been very different for her if she had been on Philippe’s arm. Poor Philippe!   
She had been asleep when an eruption from downstairs awoke her. She was about to open the door to investigate when she heard the pounding of feet running down the hallway. Rather than open it, she pressed her ear to the door.  
“La mort bleue!”  
“We are all dead!”  
“Damn Philippe! He has brought ruin upon us all!”  
The Blue Death? At the Château de Chagny? And just how was it Philippe’s fault? She was too savvy to care to find out. She twisted the key in the door and backed away from it. She surveyed her surroundings. She ran out to the balcony, bracing herself against the cold. She looked down. It was too far to jump. She would break her leg and then she would die outside in the snow. But the snow that had collected on the balcony itself could quench her thirst. There was a plate of fruit and a single croissant leftover from the tray the maid had brought up for breakfast the previous morning. It was not much, but she could be patient and eat it slowly. She could survive this. She need only be patient and keep her wits about her. Which by day two was proving difficult.  
Her ears were filled with the agonizing deaths of the others. Occasionally, someone would bang on her door or twist the doorknob urgently. From whispers and shouts in the hallway she slowly pieced together that someone had crashed the party, had kissed everyone by the hand or cheek, had imparted death on the entire household. The servants had disappeared. No one could find an exit. They were all trapped in hell.   
Raoul had come to the door that awful night.  
“Christine! Christine! Don’t open the door - but talk to me? Are you safe?”  
“Raoul?” she whispered.  
“Sorelli! Don’t open the door! Is Christine there with you?”  
“I have not seen her since the ball. I just woke up. What is happening?”  
“The Blue Death has killed Philippe!” he cried.  
By the way he phrased it, Sorelli imagined that funeral masquerader dress all in blue attacking her former lover. She quickly came to understand this was not at all what Raoul meant, but the image remained in her mind.  
Along with the haunting sounds of the dying, an acrid smell drifted in from under the door. They had begun burning materials that had no business in a fireplace; varnished wood, sofa stuffing, velvet curtains. When there was no longer anyone strong enough to find more things to burn, the many hearths of the great house went cold, crowded with ash, and an icy chill crept through every room.   
Sorelli reserved her energy. She slept, she rested, she listened. Each time she heard a cough, she would look at the clock and begin to count the hours until she could leave that room. Each time she heard another cough, she reset her internal clock. She would give herself a full day from the sound of the last person’s death. She was determined to live. 

Erik found a bag of dried out apples under a rack of wine. He could have presented her with no greater gift. While he was used to living in the darkness, on little sleep and little food, Christine was a creature of the light. She needed sun and sustenance.   
She accepted an apple greedily. He offered her wine, but she refused. Her head still ached from the rum, though the party had ended two days ago. As they would not be sharing, Erik drank directly from the bottle. They found a pail of water, catching a steady drip of water from the ceiling. The kerosene lamp had sputtered out hours ago and they were again plunged into the shadows. Perhaps it was better that way.  
Christine’s fear was fleeting. What fear could there be in the mere semblance of Death, when actual Death feasted so loudly just outside? For Erik was not Death. He held no power here. He could not say who would live or who would die. If, by chance, Philippe had indeed kissed her cheek before he died, Erik would not have been able to save her. Or even himself. He had revealed that much to her.   
He was hideous. But after her fear had flown away, a great pity flooded her heart. She now understood his deceit, his lies, his air of mystery. All plaintive attempts at love. She could not hate him. He was still the voice that had so often comforted her when she wept with grief for her father. And it was true that he had saved her. For if he had not pulled her away, she would have embraced Raoul, and embraced Death himself just as tightly. Poor Raoul!   
She hungrily ate two more apples and then decided that she might like a cup of wine after all. As there were no cups, Erik gave her a bottle from which she could sip as much as she liked. They heard a cough and a body stirring above. They each sighed. Another doomed soul, another day in darkness. They counted the passing of time by the faint ribbon of light that appeared under the door during the brightest part of the day.  
He sang to her. Intoxicated by his voice and by the wine, she again settled her head onto his knee as he leaned against the wall. He smoothed her hair and tucked the edges of his cloak around her. He kept his hand on her shoulder as she drifted off to sleep.

She awoke hours later. She shifted her head against him, aware of a hardness that had not been there before. The hand on her shoulder pulled her deeper into his lap. He cleared away the hair from her neck and rested cold fingers over her flesh. She could pretend that she was still asleep and maybe it would stop. But she did not want to sleep or to pretend. She did not want it to stop. 


	7. Illimitable Dominion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He that mischief hatches mischief catches.

Death cannot be locked outside. Erik himself had told her this as she danced in his arms, as he mocked Philippe for his foolishness. Each time she heard the coughing and sputtering of the dying overhead, she thought of Erik’s own foolish confidence. He seemed so certain that he could save her. As hunger gnawed at her insides, she had her doubts.  
Raoul is dead, he had said with such arrogance. As if he had the power to know who would survive this and who would die. As if he thought that because he carried Death’s head upon his shoulders he was privy to this knowledge while others were not.   
His fingers possessively wound around her throat, lightly caressing her vocal chords, perhaps something he had long desired to do. All the while, his other hand moved through her hair, gently guiding the back of her head closer against him. His movements were so light, so discreet that it seemed as though he thought she were still asleep.   
Poor Raoul, golden haired boy with rosy skin. It seemed wrong that he should lay dead while she slept in the arms of this cadaverous creature who was, in spite of everything, very much alive. When she pressed the back of her head against that pulsing thing he made a desperate, muffled sound. She felt him twitch beneath her. She did not know that it could twitch! Her mouth watered without understanding why. She twisted her knees together. For how long could she pretend to sleep without giving herself away? The darkness around them was total, but she suspected his strange eyes allowed him to see more in the dark than was natural. She pressed her eyes shut.   
He was very calm now, wasn’t he? She could almost forget how he had abused himself, how he had crawled before her, pulling at her skirts like a child. Now, secure in her forgiveness, even with the spectre of Death loitering just outside, he seemed very much in command of himself.   
The hand at her neck began to wander, daring to slip finger tips beneath her thin cotton chemise and over her collarbone. She gave a sharp inhale that emboldened him to venture further, passing lightly over her nipples, delighting in their reaction to his frosted touch. She shivered. A small cry of pleasure escaped from her lips. He stopped. He knew she was awake now.   
She sat up, pushing the velvet cloak off her shoulders. She climbed into his lap, straddling his narrow waist, winding her arms around his neck, pressing her head against his beating heart. He would have wondered what possessed her if he were not already so certain of the answer.  
“ _Christine_ ,” he hissed through his teeth. He embraced her at last, his long legs bending at the knee and pushing her further down onto his pulsing cock.   
“Oh Christine!” he groaned. “You must love me! Say you love me!”  
She took his face in her hands, caressing his cheekbones and jawline. He opened his mouth in disbelief. She passed her fingers dangerously close to his hole of a nose.  
“I have given you my soul and I am dead,” she whispered.  
She dared to let a finger slip inside. He flinched away.   
“Don’t, don’t say that,” he sighed with regretful recognition.  
Perhaps he did not know after all what it was that possessed her. She tried to touch the inside of his nasal cavity again. When he snatched her by the wrist, she threw her head back in laughter. He realized then that she was delirious. He pulled her head against his chest, to rest again against his heart. He had rather liked that.  
“We are going to die here, aren’t we?” she whispered mournfully.  
“No, Christine,” he said, hands running up through her hair, keeping her head in place.  
“We will starve down here.”  
“They will all die before we starve,” he reassured her. As if he could know these things.   
“I am so hungry it hurts.”  
“Shall I get you another apple? They are all for you.”  
“No.”   
“What then?” he asked, holding her little face between his hands. “What can I give you, my love?”  
He knew well enough that she could not say. He knew that even if she could name what she desired, she could never say the words out loud. She was such a good girl. She burrowed her face deep into his chest, inhaling his sweet rot scent. Soon Raoul would smell so sweet, she mused.   
“Christine!” he clutched at her desperately. “Say you love me, oh my angel, let me have you, let me have all of you, let me taste you, let me inside…” He took a hold of her hips and pulled her down flush against him. He cried out as she pulled herself closer still.  
“I am here,” she said, softly kissing his forehead, dissolving him into a fury of tears.

He laid her back on the cloak, stroking the length of her body over the chemise, stiffened with sick and sweat. He pulled the garment away and kissed every part of her with devoted reverence. He kissed her mouth and he tasted like the grave. He kissed her sex and he evoked bursts of light from the darkness above her. She saw their love in these terms; falling somewhere between the grave and the bed, the dark and the light. He pulled it out and tentatively placed her hand over it. It pulsed and twitched about in her frightened grasp until he took it back from her. He trembled as he guided himself into her slowly and with much tenderness, wincing and crying along with her as it stung and broke through tissue. It did not last long. When it was over, she found herself sore and unsatisfied. 

“I would make you my wife, Christine,” he murmured into her ear, fingers winding through her hair. “When all of this is over, if there are any priests left, I will marry you.”   
He lay on his side, the curve of her back pressed into his groin. He caressed her softly while he recovered.  
“I will never marry anyone,” she said absently.  
“Yes you will. I will make you very happy. You will see.”   
Aware that she was left wanting, he began anew. He slid his hand down her belly, over the soft hair, through the folds, searching, searching for that part of her that would make her cry out for him. Maybe even say his name. She pressed herself backwards, into his swell. She opened her mouth and he filled it with a finger that hooked her teeth. Without knowing how she knew, she bit down on it, sucked at it, just as she clenched herself around the other icy fingers now inside other warm parts of her. He lifted himself up and turned her onto her belly. She did not know that it could be done this way! He laid down on her back, guiding himself into her again. He groaned into her mass of hair. She felt him invade her fully. She felt his pulse deep inside of herself and she did not want it to stop. She knew she loved him. His arm swept around her shoulders and brought her head close to his mouth, his rotten rotting mouth from which poured the most vivacious incantations of love and beauty directly into her ear. And the most urgent of demands,  
“Oh love me, Christine, love me, you must love me!”  
“Yes!” she finally said, each word expelled from her lungs with each thrust. “Yes, I love you, Erik. I love you!”

She woke up in an indecent knot of limbs; his arms entwined about her, a hand resting over her breast, the other hidden between her legs. He was not asleep; his yellow eyes ever glowing and ever watching her. When he saw that her eyes were open and fluttering, he pulled her mouth to his. He kissed her lips and spoke into her ear,   
“It is time.”  
He pulled her to her feet. Her body ached from hunger, from cold, from wine, from sex. He placed the last apple into her hands and instructed her to eat it. He swept the cloak over her shoulders and tied it at her neck. She could not find her slippers. She did not even remember kicking them off. As she suspected, he had no trouble finding them in the darkness. He placed them on her feet as if she were a child. And finally, he bent down and ripped off a section of her chemise. He tied it over her face, just below her eyes, having already replaced his own mask.   
He took her by the hand and opened the door. After three full days of darkness, they found even this dim light too much to bear. They covered their faces until their eyes adjusted. He began to lead her down the hallway, but she was unsteady on her feet. He effortlessly lifted her into his arms and carried her back the way they had come. Up, up, up into the light.

The floor of the great hall was littered with papier-mâché masks, trampled and torn apart. There were spills of various liquids, shards of broken furniture, the rotting remains of the feast. While most guests had run off to die in their guest beds, a few had remained at the fête until their very end. The smell of death and ash hung heavy in the air.  
They found the bloated Comte Philippe-Georges-Marie de Chagny in the very place where he had died on the floor. He had been respectfully turned onto his back, his hands clasped peacefully atop his chest. His lips were a very deep, unnatural shade of blue. At his side, mouth to the ground, lay his devoted brother. Tears streamed down Christine’s face, drenching her mask. She thoughtlessly stepped forward and again Erik had to pull her back.  
“Do not touch him!” he scolded. He felt her shudder under his voice and he softened his tone. “Please, do not touch. I could not bear to lose you.”   
She nodded and wiped her tears away. She looked up into his eyes. In the light of day he was even uglier than she had remembered. His yellow eyes were now endless black; not a ray of light or a glint of life reflected from them. But there was the faintest flicker of warmth, there in the way the muscles contracted around the deep sockets of his eyes. She could see how very much he loved her.   
“Philippe wears a key around his neck,” she said. “A key to a door to the outside.”  
Erik looked around for some tool with which he could search the Comte’s neck without touching the body with his hands. He found a long black iron poker by the hearth. He deftly wielded it over Philippe’s neck, catching the chain on its pointed end.

It was time too, for Sorelli. She dressed herself in her warmest clothes and coat. She laced up the boots she had worn the day she left Paris in the carriage. She fashioned a silk scarf into a mask. She was deliriously hungry. She had to find food or she would never be able to leave this house and brave the forest. She braced herself for the horror show downstairs.  
She padded lightly down the steps of the grand staircase, twirling the wooden ring around her finger, whispering prayers to Saint Andrew and all the Saints. Prayers for protection, prayers for strength. The house was hauntingly quiet. All the clocks unwound and timeless.  
She saw Christine first. The girl was alive! But what had happened to her? Her hair was a stiff and wild mess spiraling out from her head. She wore what looked like a blue curtain over her shoulders. Her chemise was ripped at the knees and stained down the front with what could be wine around her neck. With what could be blood below her waist. She was talking to someone. It was a man! His back was to Sorelli as he crouched over a body. Her hand found her thigh. She clutched the dagger as her dancer's feet silently glided over the floor. Then she could see the body more clearly - it was Philippe. Poor Philippe! And the man crouching - it was him! That cursed figure! That dark enchanter! What had he done to Christine? What had he done to Philippe?   
With total certainty that he was the cause of all the evil and misfortune that had befallen the Château de Chagny, Sorelli lifted her dagger and plunged it into his neck. 

In all her future years, Sorelli would never forget the sound of Christine’s scream. The soprano’s voice had never been so piercingly loud. Loud, with increasing intensity, as if she thought she could scream the blood away. The figure fell silently. Sorelli had been well taught; the dagger was not for show. She had stabbed him in the thin skin just below the ear and the severed artery spewed his dark blood everywhere. Over Sorelli, over Philippe, over Raoul, over Christine. He fell to the floor like a heap of blue cloth, unoccupied by any tangible form.   
And Christine could only stand and scream through her white mask. Sorelli embraced her fiercely. She sobbed into her friend’s shoulder. She did not like what she had done and she shook in fear of herself.   
“Christine! Did he hurt you? What did he do to you? Oh, Christine - you are safe now!”  
  
Christine could not speak but did everything Sorelli told her to do. She allowed herself to be led upstairs to their room. Sorelli dressed her in a clean chemise and a new dress and a warm coat. Sorelli laced up her boots and folded a fresh silk mask over her face. She gave Christine a blanket and simple cloth sack to carry. They roamed the house together scavenging for food. In the great hall, the only unspoiled thing to be found were candied apples. But in the cold kitchen they found carrots, onions, and some salted fish. They ate ravenously. Then they packed the rest into their sacks. Christine held out her hand and produced the key, still on its broken chain. Sorelli understood and together they searched the ground floor for the way out.   
They found the door unlocked and wide open. They held hands and passed through the threshold into the snow.

The horses were gone from the stables. They found a body in the barn. Sorelli held Christine’s hand as they walked down the long road to the village, the hems of their skirts dragging through the melting snow.  
“Who was he, Christine?” she dared to ask.  
“I cannot speak of it,” Christine murmured.  
“Did he hurt you?”  
Christine did not speak.   
“You can tell me if he hurt you. Or you can stay quiet. I only - I thought he had hurt you. That is why I - but now I am not so sure. Who was he?” Sorelli wept. “What have I done?”  
“We need never speak of it again,” Christine whispered. A few moments later, because to remain silent would have been a betrayal, she tearfully added,  
“He did not hurt me. He saved me.”

They were near the village when they saw two dark riders in the distance. Both women stiffened in fear. While they longed to see another living soul, they also understood the danger inherent in their situation. A highway full of thieves before them, a forest full of wolves on either side. They pulled their masks up.  
But when they met the riders in the road, they immediately recognized those jade eyes and the queer little hat of the older man.   
Of all the people! Sorelli thought with exasperation.   
“Mesdemoiselles,” he said, nodding politely, bringing his horse to a halt. His servant did the same. “Is this the road to the Château de Chagny?”  
“It is,” Sorelli said flatly. “But you won’t find anyone there.”  
“Where have they gone?” he asked innocently.  
“They are all dead.”  
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said, removing his hat. “Everyone? Are you certain?”  
“We have just come from there.”   
It was then that he looked more closely at them.  
“Mlle. Sorelli? Mlle. Daaé? From the Opera? You were there with the Comte de Chagny?”  
“We were there, Monsieur. Everyone has perished. The house is a ruin.”  
He believed her. A look of great sadness came over him. His servant bowed his head respectfully.  
“Why have you come, Monsieur?”   
“I was looking for -” He stopped and composed himself. He thoughtfully considered how to explain himself. “I sent a letter to the Comte de Chagny a month ago, advising him that I had reason to believe there was an intruder in your party. I wanted to be sure he received my message.”  
“He received it,” Sorelli confirmed.  
“And was an intruder ever found?” he asked with what seemed like the hope of possibility.  
Sorelli did not know how to answer. Philippe had so thoroughly dismissed this poor man’s note. They had all laughed at the very idea of it, the strange foreigner imposing himself on their retreat. But he had been correct all along, had he not? She shivered as she remembered the figure whispering in her ear after that demonic performance as Méphistophélès.  
“Erik is dead,” Christine said suddenly.   
Sorelli whipped her head around in confusion. Who was Erik? But the man with the jade eyes gazed at Christine with deep sorrow. He bowed his head and looked to the side, as if to hide his face from them.  
“And Paris?” Sorelli asked with dread.  
He gravely shook his head.  
“It is dangerous for you two to be alone. I have heard there are wolves in this forest. We have two horses. If you like, you can ride with us. We have food, we will share it. We have pistols. For the wolves.”   
Sorelli looked at Christine and Christine nodded wearily.   
“We also have food that we can share.” Sorelli paused and then asked, “How can we know you are not sick?”  
The man shared a look with his servant, who twisted his face with a grim thought.  
“We left Paris two days ago. Since then, we have not seen another living person. And you, Mesdemoiselles? How can we be certain you are not infected?”  
Sorelli considered her answer carefully.   
“I do not think we can be certain until this time tomorrow. So, you had better not touch us.”  
The men nodded in agreement.   
“You have our word that we will not touch you. You are safe with us. Darius will ride with me. You two can have his horse.”   
Darius dismounted and backed away from his animal. Under normal circumstances, he would have offered the women assistance. But he could only watch helplessly as Sorelli struggled to lift her foot into the stirrup, weighted as she was by her voluminous skirts. She pulled herself up and then turned to help Christine. The horse snorted and danced about until Sorelli firmly took the reins and settled him. Christine wrapped her arms tightly around her friend’s waist.   
They did not ride long before the half-light of evening loomed over them. The men suggested they make a fire and lay out their blankets on opposite ends for the night. They compared stocks of food. The men were well prepared; they had brought dry rice and a cooking pot, to which Sorelli added an onion and a few carrots. She gave them each a candied apple. Questions hung in the air, but they did not speak much. There would be time. They would come to know each other well after countless hours on the road together. One day, the man with the jade eyes would sit across the campfire from Sorelli and Christine and gently ask them to tell the story of the fall of the Château de Chagny. And he would ask without revealing what he truly wanted to know: how his friend and burden had met his end.   
They rode north, towards the coast, through a devastated country of villages abandoned by the living and colonized by the Blue Death. They scavenged empty houses for food and hay for their horses. But they slept outside, out of respect for the ghosts so recently moved in. It was now acknowledged that the plague had won. It was folly to grieve or to think. They did their best to be gracious and to go unnoticed. They were but guests in this new world and Darkness and Decay and Death held illimitable dominion over them all. 


End file.
